                                      1816
                      SPENSER! A JEALOUS HONOURER OF THINE
                                 by John Keats

        Spenser! a jealous honourer of thine,
          A forester deep in thy midmost trees,
        Did last eve ask my promise to refine
          Some English that might strive thine ear to please.
        But, Elfin Poet, 'tis impossible
          For an inhabitant of wintry earth
        To rise like Phoebus with a golden quill
          Fire-wing'd and make a morning in his mirth.
        It is impossible to escape from toil
          O' the sudden and receive thy spiriting;
        The flower must drink the nature of the soil
          Before it can put forth its blossoming;
        Be with me in the summer days, and I
        Will for thine honour and his pleasure try.


                        THE END
